Tabbatha Urbanski looked at photos on posterboard of her son Seth Carlson inside her Bloomington home. (SHARI L. GROSS, Star Tribune/The Minnesota Star Tribune)

The rest of Seth Carlson's class graduated from Bloomington Jefferson High School last month.

But Carlson died of an overdose in October, days before his 18th birthday, after years of struggling with addiction. His mother, Tabbatha Urbanski, said there wasn't enough help for her son. Even now, years into the opioid crisis, she said there are still few treatment options for teenagers who want to get help — and the maze of chemical health services can be tough for families to navigate.

"We knew about Seth's addiction and we were trying to support him," Urbanski said.

This past school year, Bloomington Public Schools decided to do more to try to address students' substance use before it turns deadly. Though teens report lower levels of drug use than in decades past, school officials are worried that students are using drugs to cope with anxiety and depression, especially since the COVID-19 pandemic began.

Schools across the country saw a wave of behavior problems as students struggled to readjust to in-person learning in the 2021-22 school year. Bloomington schools had the same trouble, and also dealt with more students using drugs at school — mostly THC edibles or vapes. By last summer, said Jennifer McIntyre, Bloomington's director of special education, it was clear the schools needed to do more.

"How do we make sure we're building the system out for our students?" she asked.

School officials decided to supplement nurses, counselors, social workers and psychologists with a contractor that specializes in substance use disorder treatment. The district used $28,000 in recurring federal funding to bring in Golden Valley-based Phase Zero Recovery's Adam Wick and Austin Hatch, both licensed alcohol and drug counselors, who started by training teachers and school staff on the difference between normal teenage experimentation and substance-use disorder.

"What's the difference between smoking a joint once in a while, versus, 'I'm dependent on joints to function?'" Hatch explained.

The work quickly expanded, and they started seeing students for chemical dependency counseling appointments — at school, during the school day. Being part of the school ecosystem makes it easier to connect a student with treatment, and with other support from school social workers, psychologists and counselors.

"Left to their own will, an adolescent is not going to go get a diagnosis [of substance-use disorder]," Hatch said.

Over the last school year, 34 Bloomington students were referred for a chemical health counseling session, according to data collected by the school district. Of those, three were referred for chemical dependency assessments, and all three of those were found to have active substance use disorders and referred to treatment.

Teenagers have been reporting higher rates of anxiety and depression for years, and for many the isolation of the pandemic made things worse. Hatch said he sees more students using drugs to get through the day.

Which drug a student uses — prescriptions, opioids, cannabis, alcohol — is not the concern, Wick said. He said he worries about children and teenagers using any substance to deal with an underlying mental health problem.

And as adult-use marijuana laws become more permissive in Minnesota and elsewhere, Hatch said he worries more teenagers will have easier access and use the drug to cope with underlying mental health challenges or to withdraw socially.

"More and more kids are relying on substances to function — to get up, to go to sleep, to not have to deal with things," he said. "These kids are sad. They're depressed. They're anxious, and they have nobody to talk to about it."

For Carlson, drug use seemed to have been more about dealing with anxiety and depression than experimentation, his mother said. Early in high school, she said, he was already isolating from friends.

"Looking back, I can see it more now than I could then," Urbanski said.

There wasn't enough help for her son, she said, even early on. And there was not nearly enough ongoing support after he was discharged from treatment programs.

The family struggled to find effective treatment, and Urbanski worried 30- and 45-day stints in inpatient weren't enough. Carlson was in residential treatment several times over three years of using opioids, juvenile detention for a few months and had several attempts at intensive outpatient treatment. He died less than two weeks after he was discharged the last time, Urbanski said.

Since about a month after Carlson's death, Urbanski has been working with groups of other parents who have lost children to overdoses, advocating for permanent memorials to the opioid crisis.

She told her son's story this spring during a school district program aimed at raising awareness of the chemical health services now in Bloomington schools — and reminding other parents that drugs are everywhere, even in Bloomington, even where substance-use disorder is not something people talk about.

Talking about her son, advocating for better treatment resources and educating other families have helped her see a way forward.

"That's how I cope with losing him," she said.